


Morse Code

by grumpysimon



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:56:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpysimon/pseuds/grumpysimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" Oxford educated psychologist with hardly any food in the fridge, sometimes. Together you’ve seen thousands of stars and the turn of the millennium on a television screen. That wasn’t the first time he said three words. And that wasn’t the last time, either."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morse Code

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first X Files thing so be gentle!!!! I'm really proud of it though. I edited it but if there are any small mistakes or anything you catch, comment! Tell me! Also, I always love feedback, kudos, and general love. Means a lot to me and keeps me writing.  
> -XOXO, K.C

The genius across the table from you has not brushed his hair in a week. His shirt is clean but wrinkled, and his eyes are bright but unfocused. He lives in his headspace, in his theories and his foundations of believing in everything that no one else does. He looks handsome this disheveled, crooked smile like it’s hanging off him, ready to fall off onto the dirty table.

You’ve spend more nights in motel rooms with this smile than you can count. Skeptic falls for the believer, believer analyses the skeptic and also falls. He’s the type to trip over his shoelaces and burn his mouth on coffee, but he’s a genius underneath all those layers of disorganized thinking and half-sharpened pencils.

He asks you for a pen. The genius always loses things. Your coffee comes and he spills a little on the napkin. He taps on the table. Morse code, maybe. You’re too tired to figure out what he’s saying to you in secret. You say his name and that smile is more crooked than ever. He’s counted all the freckles on your cheeks, seen you at your worst with scrapes on your knees and chin like a child who fell off your bike.

He’s thought you were a goner, he’s thought he lost you more than once. And you’ve felt the same. You’ve buried him. He’s solved the things you could never comprehend. You are looking in his eyes and thinking about how his hands look holding a gun, holding a steering wheel, holding you. He looks for his answers in the further and beyond. Nothing much has changed, only consolidating from two motel rooms to two beds to one bed, one room, and one love. It is the same two people. The genius likes to keep you close because he wants to keep you safe.

You won’t tell him that you stay close so he won’t get himself in too much trouble. But the genius secretly knows that you used to stay awake worried about that couch he sleeps on, or when he’s not sleeping at all. Oxford educated psychologist with hardly any food in the fridge, sometimes. Together you’ve seen thousands of stars and the turn of the millennium on a television screen. That wasn’t the first time he said three words. And that wasn’t the last time, either.

He could believe in the impossible, the improbable, the ridiculous, but he could not believe you when you told him you were dying. And this endless devotion, endless searching, it is what saved your life. More than once.  
Even when it was painful to admit that maybe he was right. Maybe.

The genius across the table taps something and you are familiar with it, almost sounds like I love you. You’ve heard it before, his secret code, language between the thing you two don’t talk about. At least not in words. It’s too scary to admit that over the years of abductions and chases and losing and winning, certain things are too hard to say.

You didn’t have a desk but he tapped out those words on his. You pretended to not hear it but smiled behind his back soon later. And maybe on the dashboard you’d tap out four words, if you were feeling lucky. These things take time. You’ve been shot, stabbed, trapped, hallucinated underneath the ground, bled and bled and bled. But you trust him more than you let on. Secrets, motel rooms, aliens. His undying faith for the truth.

He is obsessed with his passions, paranoid and delusional on his worst days, but you love him and the devotion he brings along with you, brings to the basement. You would follow him anymore, and so you have.

The unknown is his forte. The truth is his quest, the knight of discovery. Endless faithfulness to the mission. He’s lost everything over and over again before he could piece it together, tell his story and truth he could prove to the world.  
And it tests your patience, vampires, werewolves, flying saucers, and you just want him to look in the books some days, just look at the science. But the genius is always looking up. Even when you try and pull him down, steal thoughts out of that headspace. Tell me what you're thinking.

And he never gave up. Not one day.

And he’s drawn a flying saucer on the napkin.

Of course he has.

The genius never fails.


End file.
